Hannibal had never been to a club such as this one before, and as he sat at a table alone, drink in hand, he understood why. The place was incredibly tacky, with black and red velvet curtains intertwined with beads hung from the walls and the ceilings, and a glitter-covered stage that curved halfway around the room like a pseudo-catwalk. The only thing missing was a pole.
Unbearably kitschy, Hannibal thought to himself. Women in dresses as tight as bandages and men in open vests and low-hanging trousers wove from table to table, bringing drinks and appetizers to and from the long bar at the back of the room. Loud music was played by a quartet on stage left, and a tall blonde woman floated around them, adjusting their bow ties and popping them on the rears with her jewel-encrusted hands.
Hannibal resisted the urge to disappear into the woodwork. He felt incredibly out of place in his tailored suit and Italian shoes. Everyone who filed in around him dressed like caricatures of real Londoners. Incredibly tacky.
The lights began to dim as a waitress set a glass of wine onto the table next to him. He barely noticed her batting her false eyelashes.
"Welcome to The Black Cat," a silky voice floated through the speakers that were situated all around the room. The stage was dim, save a few footlights, but Hannibal could still make out sixteen feminine silhouettes as they strut onto the stage. As the silky voice rattled off a list of names, a spotlight found the girls one by one. They posed provocatively, waving and blowing kisses to the audience.
And then a head of red hair was thrown into the light and Hannibal's heart ceased its steady rhythm. Piercing green eyes blinked wildly against the lights from beneath heavy lashes. Long legs clad in fishnet tights and garters carried her forward as she twirled around, soaking in the cheers and howls that rose from the audience. And a thin, faint scar peeked out from behind the binds of a corset. Hannibal felt his hands and feet begin to go numb. White splotches flashed across his vision and a roaring in his ears overpowered the cheering of the crowd.
"And Nora!" the voice put a false name to Ophelia's so drastically changed face. She looked almost skeletal; the only thing lending her the illusion of health was the bright smear of rouge on her cheeks. Hannibal's fists clenched beneath the table as Ophelia fell into step with the rest of the girls. He knew not what to think.
At first, he was outraged and thought of jumping onstage right then and there. He imagined himself grabbing her and carting her off. He would wrap her bony shoulders in his jacket and tuck her away, only releasing her from his grasp once she was safe and sound in his home. Would she be glad to see him? Or would she be afraid, as he feared?
Hannibal was entirely focused on Ophelia's face as she strutted to the center of the stage, where a spotlight awaited her. The others had left and a new number had begun, leaving her alone to dance and flounce about. The crowd clearly agreed with her theatrically provocative movements. Hannibal only felt anger and a bit of shame that somehow he had a hand in pushing her to these depths. She barely even looked like the Ophelia that he loved so dearly.
He watched her from the darkness, grateful that she could not see past the first few rows of tables. But soon she left the stage, only to be replaced by a smaller, more buxom woman with ratty black hair. Not Hannibal's cup of tea. He slipped from his table and made his way to the bar, sitting directly in front of the bartender, a man who looked as if he had come directly from Grease.
"Hey," Hannibal tried his best to sound casual, "Who was that last one?"
"Nora," the bartender nodded, his hair so slick that it didn't budge an inch, "She's somethin', huh?" He wriggled his eyebrows and licked his lips.
Hannibal nodded, taking a sip of his wine, "Yeah. What's she all about?"
"Well, she's been here for a little over a month, but she's fit in right well," he poured a drink and slid it down the bar to another man who had appeared to Hannibal's left, "She's bloody fit, too."
"I'd like very much to meet her," Hannibal downed the rest of his wine, the idea of strangling the bartender becoming rather appealing.
"She and the rest of the girls are coming to a party at my flat after the show, man. 'Fraid, she's booked for the night. She's working tomorrow, though. Doing a bit of bar tending work with me before the show." He winked and Hannibal's fists curled into tights balls beneath the bar.
"Fantastic," Hannibal smiled through clenched teeth. After refilling his wine glass, Hannibal returned to his table. The rest of the show consisted of a few more languid, slinky solo numbers from sleazy-looking girls, save the final number, during which Ophelia was front and center. She looked nearly insane, her pupils dilated and her hands quivering throughout the entire rapid-paced song.
When the show had ended and the house lights had come back up, the club started to clear out rather quickly. It seemed as if everyone knew about the bartender's party. Hannibal waited at his table for a moment, expecting Ophelia to appear, but soon the club was nearly empty and there was no sign of Ophelia.
"Hey, suit guy!" a nasal voice startled Hannibal. He turned to see two of the dancers approaching him, arm-in-arm. They were dressed in similar getups to Ophelia's: corsets, fishnet tights, and impossibly tall heels. They resembled clowns, with makeup plastered on their skin.
"Hello," he stood.
"I saw you during the show," the black-haired girl with the nasal voice popped her hip, "And I think you should come to the party. As my date."
"No, as my date!" the other girl squealed, "we were the girls on the catwalks, remember? We spotted you. We're observant. And you've got this whole suave vibe going on that we don't get around here a lot. We didn't tell anyone else, though. You're our secret."
"What are your names, ladies?" Hannibal played along. He could lose these girls as soon as he reached the party. He just had to get to Ophelia.
"Coco," the black haired girl winked, hiccuping. The stench of vodka on her breath was appalling.
"Georgie," the other girl held a hand out to Hannibal, who played his part well by planting a kiss on her hand.
"So," Hannibal grinned, poisonously charming, "Let's see about this party, shall we?" He took the girls arm-in-arm, allowing them to pull him along, out of the club and down the street. Following them in silence, he listened to them talking about the most trivial things. Through the streets they strutted, Hannibal in somewhat reluctant tow.
They finally arrived at a tall brick building after quite a bit of walking, lit up from every window. Hannibal could already hear the sounds of loud industrial music and bawdy laughter. The girls led him through the front doors and into an enormous foyer packed with people from nearly every walk of life, or so it seemed. Many of the women were dressed just as provocatively as Coco and Georgie, and most of the men quite resembled the bartender; greasy and unappealing.
Hannibal had to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the place, though it was filled to the brim with intoxicated twenty-somethings that partially obscured his view of the brilliant architecture. Directly across a wide tile mosaic before the front doors was a long, wide staircase that wound and branched into two separate paths. To the left, underneath the staircase, was an open archway that led to an entirely stainless steel kitchen, while the archway on the left led to a sitting room with an enormous fireplace. The ceiling was tall and vaulted, and was painted with light pastels. The whole place was lit with crystal chandeliers.
"Nora!" a voice from amongst the crowd pulled Hannibal from his observations, "Get in here! We've got lines for ya'!" Hannibal pulled away from Coco and Georgie, who did not seem to mind, and followed the voice through the crowd and into the living room. He could barely think due to the pounding music, and he could barely make out any definite faces in the sea of people, but he still managed to pick out Ophelia's tinkling laugh amongst the rest.
He spotted her then, kneeling beside the glass coffee table. A group of people surrounded her and another girl, cheering them on as they pulled their hair out of their faces. Hannibal watched as Ophelia, clad in nothing but lacy purple underwear and a kimono-like wrap, leaned over the table, her face hovering over a long line of white powder. The girl beside her did the same, and after a count of three, they began to inhale it furiously. Ophelia threw her hands into the air once her line had disappeared, and they crowd cheered.
The grease-haired bartender appeared from the crowd and pulled Ophelia to her feet by the sash on her kimono. She jumped up and down, cheering and laughing as he led her into a different room, away from Hannibal's watchful eyes.
His heart sank and his stomach twisted. He had driven her to this; he had driven her to the rock bottom in which she lived. And it was he who would save her.